


consequentialism

by goldcarnations



Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, American Politics, F/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, and devi is a leftist who cannot believe she wants to hook up with him, ben is a rich republican frat boy piece of shit, i promise its not that much political discourse theres still so much fun pining, mentioned sex, no one is going to enjoy this. this was purely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcarnations/pseuds/goldcarnations
Summary: Ben bares an unaffected grin at her, but she’s not wrong. She was pretty damn good last night, if his hazy memories were any indication. “It’s okay, Devi. You don’t have to project—I know it’s going to be difficult to stop thinking about me too.”Devi’s smile sours. “I am too hungover to be dealing with you right now.”[ alternatively: ben and devi are in college, and can't seem to stop hooking up, despite their differences. ]
Relationships: Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar
Comments: 38
Kudos: 312





	consequentialism

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired purely by the fact that devi and ben divided up the young democrats and young republicans clubs in episode 5. my hand slipped and i wrote this in a matter of hours, knowing that i was gonna lose people by bringing up politics. 
> 
> anyway. like the tags say, even though there is some gratuitous, self indulgent political economic theory brought up, this fic is mostly just a lot of chaotic fun and a lot of sexual tension and confusion. also, trent and ben are friends here because i honestly think that would be a fun duo. i barely slept while writing this so take it with its imperfections.

Ben knows he’s made a mistake when he sees a bra on his dresser after he wakes up.

The splitting headache comes a second later. He blinks blearily through the mid morning light filtering in through the blinds and pain of his hangover-induced migraine, trying to collect himself. That bra is definitely on _his_ dresser, that’s for sure, but his room is never this messy—his desk is completely clear of papers, all of which have been swept to the floor. He winces at the sight of his roommate’s now broken potted plant, overturned on the floor next to his window. _Jesus_ , he must have torn this room apart last night.

He turns next to him and—the right side of his bed is empty. A welcome sight, Ben thinks to himself, because he’s had his fair share of dodging breakfast with guests who had spent the night with him. At least he can go downstairs and gorge himself in greasy hangover food by himself.

After throwing on a pair of jeans and combing his hand through his hair, he walks over and examines the bra. He blows out a breath in disbelief when he sees a ripped seam; clearly he had been in a hurry to tear it off its owner last night. Slowly, the events of the night come back to him: shotgunning beers, doing shots off of some girl, drunkenly making out with…

He grimaces as a wave of nausea comes over him. Who did he make out with?

Squinting at the bra’s lacy material, he tries to visualize how it ended up on the dresser. Foggy images drift to him frustratingly slowly. He vaguely remembers an open mouth on his neck, his hands gripped tightly around someone’s waist, the sexy fabric of the bra strikingly bright against creamy, dark skin...

Ben's eyes widen as the shock of the realization hits him.

He had sex with Devi Vishwakumar.

* * *

“Damn dude, you look _messed up_ ,” crows Trent as he takes a seat in front of him at the mess hall. “What the fuck happened to you after that party yesterday?”

Ben groans, picking at his food. “Can you be a little quieter? I feel like my brain’s gonna explode.”

“Sure thing, man.” Trent drops his voice. “But I want to know why you look like horse shit. I feel like you disappeared after twelve.”

While shoveling hash browns in his mouth, Ben contemplates the last 24 hours. So, he got shitfaced last night at his frat house’s party, made out with Devi Vishwakumar, and then had sex with her. And from what he can piece together, the night they spent together was pretty fucking good. Maybe the best he’s had in a while.

Trent examines him suspiciously. “I can’t, like, read minds, bro.”

Ben exhales.

“I slept with Devi,” he says slowly, “after the party. Devi Vishwakumar.”

Trent stares at him first, then laughs. “ _Her_?”

“What?” says Ben defensively.

“Like, Indian girl?” Trent pauses, clearly struggling to remember her other traits. Ben scoffs to himself. “The super liberal one? The one you would fight with all the time?” He cackles. “You called her, like, an idiot. Or something.”

“I never said that.”

“Well, you would clown on her all the time. You were always complaining about something she said back when you guys both had the same econ discussion group last year.”

Ben sighs; there it is. It’s no secret that they hadn't always gotten along. Their discussion periods in economics last year were notorious for having heated and intense bickering between the two of them about the benefits and consequences of raising the minimum wage, increasing government spending, and just about every fiscal issue that related to the lecture. And Trent certainly isn’t wrong in the fact that Ben had plenty of snide comments after class about her frequent references to Marxism and her obvious lack of pragmatism.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he shrugs. “So what?”

Trent shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s so crazy. I thought you said you were, like, sworn enemies. And she’s not even in a sorority. And you just fucked her.”

He closes his eyes, and for a second he sees flashes of last night again: his hand on her throat, her mouth around his—

“I know,” Ben says, “but it was just a hookup. It didn’t mean anything.”

Trent raises his eyebrows at him. “Okay, fine, but it seems pretty weird to me.”

“Whatever.”

Trent pauses, then remarks thoughtfully, “But, like, even _then_ , she doesn’t really seem your type, yeah?”

Ben looks up. “What’s my type?”

“I don’t know, dude. Skinny blonde girls who major in, like, fucking, marketing, or some shit.” He looks at Ben meaningfully. “Like, have three brain cells, and use two of them to find the best way to rush Delta and apply lipstick.

He narrows an off-put glare at Trent. “Chill out.”

“You know what I’m saying.” Trent readjusts his hat with one hand and gestures toward him with the other. “You’re like, president of College Republicans. And low key an uptight nerd with no friends. And _she_ ,” he gesticulates wildly at this, “is like this Indian, Type-A person that’s involved with all the liberal, social justice warrior stuff on campus. Not to mention, like, the _state_ president of College Democrats. You’re just the college chapter president of your thing or whatever.”

“I can be state president,” Ben mutters absently. “It’s not _hard_.”

“Shut up,” says Trent. “All I’m saying is that it’s weird. Maybe even more for her, seeing as she just got railed by someone who looks like a senate page for Mitt Romney. How’s that for a ‘polarized political climate’?” He laughs to himself. “I’d say you _reached across the aisle_ on this one.”

“Fucking jesus.”

“I bet last night was _bipartisan_ as hell.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben says, throwing up his middle finger. “Please never say anything again.”

Trent laughs hysterically, then, in a more sober tone, asks, “Well, what are you going to do now?”

“Probably talk to her, right?” Ben guesses. “But I’m not exactly sure what to say to her… we weren’t on the best of terms before _this_ happened.”

“I don’t know, dude,” Trent replies. “I never talk to girls after hooking up with them. But maybe your best bet is to make sure you guys are, y’know, good.”

Ben eats his potatoes quietly, thinking about the bra still hanging off his dresser. He highly doubts that she intended to leave it there as a way for him to keep talking to her, or that she even _wanted_ him to talk to her afterward, but he doesn't feel right about keeping something that's hers. He should probably return it, but how? It had never been in his interest last year to get her contact information. “Well, I have something of hers I need to return,” he admits, “but you don’t have her number, by any chance?”

Trent looks at him curiously, but thankfully doesn’t press further. “I think I know someone who does. Gimme a sec.”

* * *

After a quick shower, Ben sets off for the library. Devi had asked him to meet her there, and, through rapid fragmented texts, she had cussed him out, called him a stalker for getting her number, freaked out about her midterm, and demanded that he give her back her bra, which had been “wasted on him”. Though the string of texts was extremely tedious to read and at times she had taken on an unnecessarily hostile tone, he was surprised at how willing she was to sit down with him and talk. Out of courtesy, he’d decided to place her bra in a paper bag when he returned it to her, so as not to draw attention to the fact that they had slept together the night before. 

After wandering around on the second floor of the library, Ben finally finds her sitting by herself in a booth and apparently reviewing class notes. She’s wrapped in an oversized tie-dye hoodie, hair pulled back loosely in a bun that’s falling apart, absorbed entirely in a thick textbook. Nearly everything surrounding her is an explosion of color—her multicolored felt tip pens, neon lime nail polish—and he immediately notices her laptop, plastered completely with whimsical cacti stickers and colorful anti-capitalism slogans. 

When Devi sees Ben approaching her, she smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “You found me,” she says.

“That I did.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you bring it?”

Ben rummages through his backpack and hands her a brown paper bag. “It’s inside.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” she remarks sarcastically, then, grudgingly, “Thanks for returning it.”

He snorts. “What was I going to do with it? Wear it?”

“You could try, but you wouldn’t look half as hot as me in it.”

Against his better judgement, he laughs. “You’re probably right.”

In a moment that feels almost like Ben’s imagination, Devi’s mouth quirks upward; it’s gone immediately when she ducks her head to examine the bag’s contents.

“You ripped the bra!” she exclaims, pulling out the lace delicately. 

“The volume at which you said that,” he mutters, shuffling awkwardly, “defeats the purpose of the paper bag.”

“Calm down, Gross, no one here cares,” she replies flippantly, stuffing her bra back in the bag. She says pointedly, “I also wouldn’t have to shout if you could control yourself last night and not ravage the things I owned.”

“I’ll pay for another one,” he offers. Unable to help himself, he adds, “How are you feeling though? _Ravaged_?”

He can see her cheeks brightening, but she raises an eyebrow at him with bravado. “Actually, I feel amazing. Like I could run ten miles.”

“How much would you bet on that?”

She scowls. “Do you want to sit down to continue this conversation? Productively?”

“Sure thing,” says Ben. He gestures to the seat in front of her. “May I?”

Devi sighs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sits gingerly in front of her. The space between them is strewn chaotically with papers and highlighters, as well as some scattered post-its with random notes. Like her decorated computer and pens, the post-its are just as bright, darkened only by intense underlining and loopy handwriting. Her hands are perched stiffly at the edge of the table, chipped nail polish stark against the wooden desk.

When he glances up at Devi again, she’s studying him with a gaze somehow both unimpressed and intrigued. 

“I know you didn't come over here to study my notes for my Political Economic Theory midterm,” she prompts. “Let’s talk about last night.”

“Maybe I did.” Ben points to a post-it, which reads _Marx said: freedom comes after class struggle!!!!_. “This one is a real icebreaker.”

Her mouth tugs upward. “What can I say? I think he was onto something when he correlated material wealth with privilege relating to socioeconomic factors.”

“Well, duh, it doesn’t take a college degree to know that.” Ben leans back, matching the way she’s folded her arms. “I, however, am more partial to Gourney.”

“Of course you’re a _laissez-faire_ bitch,” Devi sneers. “You _would_.”

Ben raises his hands. “I just don’t think the government can sufficiently mitigate socioeconomic disadvantages through irresponsible government spending without halting economic growth and causing irrevocable destruction to the markets, is all.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh boy, that’s rich. Love the false dichotomy of comparing the protection of your precious economy with the livelihoods of marginalized. I mean, low income communities and people of color are legit getting disproportionately _fucked_ by huge corporations that those _laissez-faire_ tax cuts are enabling, whatever, right? After all, when did we start caring about brown and black communities?”

He smiles. “As much as I would love to continue this conversation, it’s getting a bit off track.”

“The C in conservative stands for _coward_ , clearly.”

He laughs, despite himself. “Right. Well, speaking of people of color getting fucked, let’s talk about where this leaves you and I. Since I’d love to still have my credibility as chapter president of the College Republicans on campus, I think we should discuss seriously about what this means for us.”

Devi shuts her laptop, tucks a thick strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Right,” she says with a smirk. “That’s cute, babe. I mean, I’ve got even more riding on the line since I’m an elected state officer, after all, for College Democrats.” She simpers. “Since we’re talking about what’s at stake here.”

“Of course,” Ben grumbles.

“Just because we’re on the subject of reputations, I’ll remind you that I’m the leader of nearly every progressive movement on campus. I’m organizing for the next climate strike on campus, and the anti-gun organization was founded by me too. I’m the head of the women’s caucus, for god’s sake.” At this, she gives him a disdainful once over. “Imagine if they found out that I was hooking up with _you_.”

“Hey, I’m plenty popular with women.”

“Oh, I bet everyone’s lining up to be your trophy wife when you make your senate run in fucking _Alabama_ , or wherever deep red abomination you’re from.”

He winks at her. “You could be next.”

She laughs once, a surprised, delighted bark that unexpectedly makes him smile. “In your dreams, kid.”

“And hey, I’m not arguing with you at all, by the way. You make very compelling points about how I would ruin you with your little leftist friends. And the same would go for me. So I just want to know that we’re on the same page with how we’re going to move forward.”

Devi shrugs. “It seems pretty obvious to me. Just pretend it never happened.”

“Fantastic. Sounds good to me.”

“Like,” she holds up her hands, “that was the last time. Yesterday night. That this will ever happen.”

He responds with an exaggerated nod. “Understood.”

“I know it might be hard,” she adds, “since I was so, so good. Probably the best you’ve ever had.”

Ben bares an unaffected grin at her, but she’s not wrong. She was pretty damn good last night, if his hazy memories were any indication. “It’s okay, Devi. You don’t have to project—I know it’s going to be difficult to stop thinking about me too.”

Devi’s smile sours. “I am too hungover to be dealing with you right now.”

“Impossible. I’m too charming.”

She glares at him. “Don’t text me, by the way. Delete my number.”

He winks at her as he stands up to leave. “Sure, but don’t get too lonely without me.”

“As if.”

He still can’t stop himself from turning back to look at her after he’s walked a few paces away. She’s tucked back in her book, strands of hair around her face, scribbling something on another post-it note. He watches her absently tug on her bottom lip with her teeth. _She’s too fucking pretty_ , he thinks, _for someone who is supposed to be hungover._

She glances up briefly and scrunches her nose at him. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she calls out, “you creep.”

He corrects himself: _for someone I’m supposed to hate._

* * *

Devi Vishwakumar is at another frat party not even a week later.

Frankly, the circumstances this time are drastically different: Ben had been nursing a beer, fully intending to go home early in preparation for his Mandarin midterm the next day, when she walked through the door, her hair pulled back to show off her collar bones, wearing the tiniest skirt he’s ever seen. 

He groans internally. Of course she’s here. Of course she’s come to another frat party, and of course he had decided to be here, of all parties, barely buzzed and doomed to watch her and her legs, which are unbelievably long. _Criminally_ long.

Before he can stop himself, the flashbacks from last weekend come back to him, and he’s suddenly unable to think of anything but that white lace bra on her body the night they hooked up. And frankly, he needs to know right now the color of her bra underneath that tank top.

Ben stares at his phone. Devi had told him to delete her number, to never text her again. And his head reminds him of the arguments they had every week during discussion last year, warning him that they’re too different. That their political philosophies clash too dramatically and anything between them would never work out. 

He watches her legs shift as she repositions her stance while chatting with a friend.

 _If it isn’t meant to be,_ he tells himself, _then whatever. It was worth a shot, right?_

After a moment of hesitation, he types out a message to her.

_Hey Devi, I can see you at this party right now. I know you said no more texting and no more hookups, but I’m kind of bored. Can we have sex again? No strings attached? We could demolish one of the rooms in this frat if you wanted._

He watches her take out her phone, holds his breath as she narrows her eyes at the screen. He holds up a hand in greeting as nonchalantly as possible when her gaze focuses on him after surveying the room.

She takes too long to reply. Ben nervously takes another sip of his beer, alternating his glances at Devi standing there and at his phone while the three dots pop up and then disappear.

_you are such a stalker._

Ben’s stomach drops. Of course this was never going to work. He should stop romanticizing that one night stand. For fuck’s sake, she had told him to delete her number, after all. 

To his surprise, the three dots show up again, then: 

_do you have a condom_

His eyes snap up to hers. She’s smiling wryly in his direction, her gaze flitting from her friends chatting animatedly around her to him, and when she bites her lip he can feel his previous thoughts flying out the window and the blood in his body going south.

 _She did that on fucking purpose_. He blows out a breath of relief, and his fingers are a mess while typing. 

_No, I don’t right now,_ he sends, _but I’ll get one, easy. Meet me upstairs._

Finding the condoms in the frat house is a walk in the park; Ben rummages through only two drawers in the bathroom before coming across a gigantic roll of condoms. He tears off a couple, thinking about the carnage that had been unleashed upon his dorm the last time they had sex—he doesn’t know how quick she wants this time to be, but there’s no doubt that she would have the physical stamina for at least one round.

He races up the stairs, peering down the hallway. “Devi?” he calls, walking down the hall.

A hand reaches out to grab him on the third door down. Before he can blink, he’s nose to nose with Devi, pressed flush against him and breathing hard. His hands slide to her waist. All he can smell is shea butter and vanilla, a combination that has never turned him on so much in his life.

“What took you so long?” she asks him, releasing him.

He assumes the question is rhetorical and looks around the bedroom. Perfectly standard, he decides, and without too many accessories, so he doesn’t have to worry about knocking anything to the floor or breaking anything. “Aren’t you on birth control?” he asks.

“Obviously,” she says impatiently. “But I’m not taking my chances on having a Republican baby daddy.”

He smiles to himself; for some reason, their differences are easier to stomach every time he contemplates it. “This again.”

Devi’s shirt comes off quickly, and he can’t stop staring at her as she bends down to take off her skirt. “Yes, _this again_. Time is of the essence, Gross.” She flips her hair as she straightens, the slant of her mouth playful and smug. “Stop watching me and take off those clothes. Or I’ll change my mind.”

He springs into action, fingers fumbling at the buttons, feeling a little put on the spot as Devi, clad only in lingerie, lounges back on the bed in the middle of the room. Somehow, that makes him even more flustered—the sight of his supposed political arch rival, looking mouthwateringly hot in a little pink bralette. He manages to throw his shirt on the ground despite this distraction, and can’t help the subsequent feeling of satisfaction when her mouth drops open at the sight of his torso.

“ _Whoa_ , was not expecting that from you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

She scoffs. “Take off your clothes faster.”

He scrambles to take off his belt. 

“By the way, turn off the automatic caps lock on your phone and stop using punctuation,” Devi says, watching him undress with increasing interest. “Only psychopaths text the way you do. And my mom.”

Ben closes his eyes, momentarily pausing to choke out a laugh. “Can we please not talk about our parents right now?”

She giggles, a sound Ben has definitely never heard from her before… but honestly doesn’t mind. He opens his eyes and finally _looks_ at her, sprawled across the bed—he studies the ringlets of hair around her face, the inviting warmth of her eyes, the delicious sheen of her lip gloss, gleaming dimly in the hazy light from the window behind him. 

His gaze drags over her mouth to her eyes again, which are almost shy. “What are you staring at?” she asks quietly.

Ben hadn’t even noticed how intensely he was staring at her. “Nothing,” he responds automatically. He approaches her, leans over her body, tucks some hair behind her ear. He struggles to find the words: “You just—look pretty. Is all.”

Devi’s lips curl up, and her hand drifts to cup his cheek. “This is the last time we’re hooking up.” she says. Her eyelashes sweep upward and her eyes meet his gaze, completely clear. Steady. “Right?”

He doesn’t answer, just kisses her.

* * *

“So you had sex with her _again_?” says Trent incredulously the next morning. 

The setting is nearly identical to their breakfast a week ago. However, this time it’s Ben talking to a very hungover Trent, who had gotten extremely wasted at the same party last night. After buying eggs, french toast, and bacon drenched in grease for Trent in the afternoon, Ben had sat him down to tell him a dramatically abridged and censored version about what transpired the night before.

“Yup,” Ben says with conclusiveness. “And then I walked her home.”

“Anything after?”

“Well, I woke up this morning and fucking aced my Mandarin exam.”

Trent exhales slowly. “You were sober that night, right?”

“Yes, and I think she was sober too,” he says helpfully, “if that makes a difference.”

“At least you weren’t like, taking advantage of her,” Trent agrees. He pauses in the middle of putting his eggs in his mouth, seemingly thoughtful. “Well, damn, dude. That’s wack. I thought you guys weren’t texting anymore.”

“Me too, and maybe we still aren’t. She said it was the last time, so that’s probably it.”

“How do you feel?”

That was a good question. How _does_ he feel? Thinking back to last night, Ben can’t deny that the lack of alcohol had completely changed the experience of hooking up, and that there were moments that ignited new emotions between the two of them which were dangerously close to romantic. The old excuses he had made for himself to reject any form of a relationship between him and Devi previously definitely had become progressively less persuasive—to the point where he isn’t convinced.

“I don’t know,” he admits out loud. 

Trent gazes at him, looking almost troubled by the apparent complexity of Ben’s predicament. “If my brain stopped pounding right now, I would help you figure it out, bud.”

“Thanks.”

Trent lowers his voice, leans closer. “Was it any good? Last night?”

Images of her lips, her eyes, her hands on his body flicker in his mind. Ben opens his mouth to tell off Trent, then his phone buzzes. Surprised, he pulls it out of his pocket. 

It’s a message from Devi.

_hey i’m in a college dems meeting rn but is there any way we could meet up soon_

He smiles to himself.

“Is it her? The SJW chick?” Trent asks, attempting to peek over the table at Ben’s phone.

“Devi,” Ben corrects, angling himself away from him, “and none of your business.”

After some hesitation about his tone, he types out: _Back for more already? ;)_

The response is immediate: _jesus this was a mistake… but yes i want to hook up again_

He demurs from responding immediately. Is this going to be just another hook up? How would anyone define their relationship, if he could even call it that?

_Alright Devi, you can stop begging for the moment. What are we doing? And are you available to talk after?_

He receives a flurry of texts back

_i am not begging, you asshole_

_not in the technical sense at least_

_idk this meeting’s going a little long can you meet me after_

_to fuck and talk after i guess_

Another pause, and then his phone buzzes once more: _or just come now and you can sit in?_

Ben chokes out a laugh. “She wants me to sit in her _College Democrats meeting_. Can you believe this?”

“Yeah, dude,” says Trent smugly. He points at Ben, pushing him with his index finger. “And I can also believe that your whipped ass is gonna do it.”

The comment is enough to remind him about his skepticism. _But what about yesterday being the last time?_

A pause. 

_idk ben. can we pls talk about that later?_

_i’m confused too. but i just need you to come here_

“Dude, okay, look at it this way. This is a primo chance to get to know her,” Trent advises sagely, patting his arm across the table. “Now you can figure out all of those problems. You should see what her interests are, even if you don’t agree, and make an effort to get to know her and what she thinks is important. And then afterward you can talk about how to move forward. Assuming you’re not just boning this time.”

Ben looks at him, dumbfounded. Trent was right; this was perhaps one of the most insightful comments Ben had ever heard from him. He rereads the messages, mind racing. Had Devi really just given him a chance to pursue something more with her?

His phone buzzes again. _ben please there’s like a closet down the hall and i need you to just shut up for once and fuck me in it just come now_

He laughs to himself, almost a little fondly. He can practically hear the text in her voice.

 _I’ll go, but I can’t promise I’ll want to have sex after,_ he finally jokes, _since the mention of fiscal irresponsibility makes me limp at the sound._

 _i’ll get you viagra you little shit,_ is the response. Then: _hurry up dickhead_

* * *

The nearest janitor’s closet is five minutes away from the College Democrats meeting. When Ben arrived, they were nearing the end of their discussion, but the ten minutes he spent there would have been complete agony if not for the distraction of watching Devi squirm under his gaze. 

Though he was there largely for the sex afterward and for the aforementioned reason of being able to admire Devi’s looks, he admits begrudgingly in retrospect that the meeting is not so terrible. Insightful, in fact, in that the discussion had opened up an understanding of another side of Devi that he had only seen previously in the form of antagonistic conversation. The more she spoke, the more he recognized his respect for her position and her values, despite their disagreements.

As he watches her stand up to thank members for speaking, he notices the way her skinny jeans fit her waist, and remembers what he came here for. Just another positive of this club meeting.

After everyone exits the room, they linger in the hall until everyone is gone. Once the last member turns the corner toward the exit Devi practically attacks him. She’s an aggressive kisser, all tongue, and her hands claw at his collar, his hair, as they stumble into the doorway of the closet together. She smells again of shea butter and vanilla; Ben breathes it in, drowns in it.

“I’m surprised you stayed,” she says as he slams the door closed and pushes her against the wall.

He kisses her deeply, then teases, “Well, you _begged_.”

“Just so you know,” she mumbles as he kisses down her neck, “everyone in that room could tell you were a Republican.”

He smiles against her skin. “Oh yeah? What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that your entire fucking outfit is from Vineyard Vines. Maybe those disgusting boat shoes that you insist on wearing. And the fact,” she gasps quietly as he nips at her earlobe, “that you frowned every time I said the word ‘welfare’.”

Ben laughs, pressing her closer to him. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you let the chapter officer of College Republicans into your little socialist cult meeting.”

“Nah, you loved it,” she pants, arching off the wall against him. “You were watching me like you wanted to lick me all over. Not that I blame you.” She drags her thumb across his lips. “I bet watching me talk about all that government spending gets you riled up.”

He laughs, grabs her ass. “Actually, it was pretty sexy when you attempted to convince everyone that Keynesian economics is going to fix every modern racial issue in America.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she breathes, her eyelids half closed, “you fucking bastard. My argument was more eloquent and nuanced than that and you goddamn well know it.”

She grinds against him and _jesus_ , yeah. He goddamn well knows it.

“Do you want to get dinner after this?” he asks abruptly, breathless. “To talk about what this is?”

She stops, her body shaking slightly in laughter under his arms. “ _Really_? You’re asking that _now_?”

He holds her tighter, latches on to her pulse point just under her jawline with his lips. 

“ _Oh!_ Ben—yes, okay,” she whimpers, “yes, let’s get dinner. Just fuck me _now_.”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> (if it helps anyone, i feel like ben is one of those rich kid country club republicans who could be easily persuaded if someone just talked to him. but who was surprised that he was republican anyway? that kid is rich as hell)


End file.
